28 July 2005

I went out to Arizona last weekend to see my brother and his new baby
(who is, of course, a doll). The being in Arizona part was great (the
deadly heat wave happened a few hours south and about 5000 feet down.
Flagstaff was quite comfy). The getting there and getting home part...
not so much.

On the way out I was supposed to go through Denver.
Except that the plane that they were supposed to get didn't make it, so
they got a smaller plane. With fewer seats. And they'd oversold to
begin with. So, when no one volunteered, they started bumping people
whose final destination wasn't Denver. Like, say, your final
destination was Phoenix. Then you might have been re-routed through
Chicago. And if you happened to have been put on the next plane
departing DCA for Chicago with a connection to Phoenix you would have
been able to spend some quality time with the person sitting next to
you.

People didn't really start getting gripey until we'd been
sitting, strapped into our seats and bidden not to move, at the gate
until an hour past our purported departure time. The pilot periodically
came on the loudspeaker to say that we were waiting for weather to
clear in Chicago. Any minute now, he'd say. Meanwhile, those of us with
seats on the back right side of the plane (28E, right here, baby) spent
that hour + watching three men in bright orange coveralls dismantling
the engine on the right wing. Every time the pilot said "Weather!" I
wondered if he sincerely believed the back right side of the plane to
be filled with a School for the Blind field trip. At hour two he
finally admitted that there might also be a slight mechanical
issue. The coverall guys were chatting animatedly around a pile of
pieces on the ground under the wind. But, we were told, because of the
weather we would have had the exact same delay, mechanical problem or no, he insisted. To which I have to say: Bollocks.

So.
Predicably, I arrived at O'Hare 85 minutes after the last flight to
Phoenix had left. So I got to spend a lovely night in the O'Hare
Airport Double Tree Inn. There are worse places to stay (remind me to
tell you about that place... well, both of those places... in Phan
Rang, ooouch, even now, that smell-). However, the night in Chicago
wasn't exactly on my agenda. When they were booking my new Chicago to
Phoenix flight I was told that I would be departing at 4:30pm.

Uh, I think not. She was kind enough to book me on to an American flight that left in the morning.

Now,
I figured that, with all the problems on the way out, surely the way
back would be trouble-free. Ah, magical thinking. It pops up at the
strangest moments. Because I'd been routed through Chicago. And
immediately upon arriving in Chicago a massive storm front arrived,
parking itself right over the glass roof of B terminal. Whipping wind,
torrential downpour, perpetual thunder and lightening.

On the
upside, I did make it out of Chicago that night. On the downside, it
was 2:30am when I got home. Shockingly, I was completely useless the
following day, when I sat virtually comatose in front of my computer
wondering what that buzzing sound was.

18 July 2005

It is a well known fact that, should you find yourself in a completely
packed Starbucks at 8:30am when there are four times as many people
stuffed into a small space as there should be, all grumpy and needing
coffee, if you stand right at the bar, blocking everyone else
from retrieving their drinks, that yours will come first. It is the
fifteenth law of thermodynamics, or whatever. It has to be, it is a
practice that must have a scientificly proven reason because someone is always doing it, whenever and where ever there is a line for coffee.

*sigh*

Walking
into my office building this morning a young woman passed me by the
door. She was walking outside to have a smoke. She had a shirt with
split sleeves on, displaying the tattoo on her right arm. It was a
rather large rendering of the Chinese character "shui," meaning water.
It had a date beneath it, a month, a day, and the year 2000. The
birthdate of her child? The day someone died? I don't know.

I'm
always kind of fascinated by the characters that people have tattooed
on themselves. I get the pictographic fascination-- this is how I ended
up in grad school to begin with-- and I'm down with tattoos-- I mean, I
have one-- but I've always been really, really reticent to get
characters tattooed on myself. Part of this is my own, weird,
superstitious oogieness about tattooing words. It's a hangup, okay? But
I also think that I don't know enough about Chinese to be sure that
anything I got would be read the way I intended it by someone who could
read it. I guess the problem is less that I don't know enough (I
don't), but that I know enough to realize that charaters are slippery.
You think they mean one thing, but there are so many subtle
implications, that suddenly they might mean something else.

That
being the case I always wonder how people who don't read Chinese choose
their characters. I vaguely remember that one of the Spice Girls had
the character for "death" on her somewhere. My first thought was,
really? Which one? Then, ug, why would you want "death" written on you?
I think another one was meant to have "girl power" tattooed on her arm.
I tried to imagine what characters that might be. Any combination I
could think of would have been unintelligible yammering in Chinese.
Like putting any two random nouns together. Monkey salad tong! Brick
lawn mower! Senator tennis raquet! Why render a phrase whose meaning
only carried weight in one language in another language and then
imprint that permanantly on your body? It would be like having a poorly
translated line of Proust, rendered directly from French to English
without any of the transitional poetics of translation, written forever
on your tuckus. Worse still, it would be like tattooing some of the
worst direct-translation menu items I've seen in China and Vietnam (one
of my favorites being the famous, Vietnamese "oscillating beef") on
your body. I don't get it.

Which is all by way of saying, uh, why did this woman have "water" tattooed on her arm?

17 July 2005

We've got meeces. Worst, worst, worst. It's like they have
radar; they just know that I can't deal with getting rid of them. I
totally can not deal with killing things with blood and guts that make
little noise, ug, I'm getting kind of dizzy and feeling guilty just
thinking about it.

I mean, I can't deal with knowing someone else is dealing with it.
Yes, yes, I've heard that this is silly, but I can't help it. When I
was living in Phnom Penh we had a rat in our flat. Not the super-sized
post-nuclear-apocalypse New York City subway kind of rat, just a
little, gray, oversized-mouse, third world kind of rat. It used to run
up the stairs and under our flat door (which left a full inch between
the bottom of the door and the tile floor), and then run around the
living room all freaked out. Eve, my flatmate, and I once cornered it
before it managed to slip back under the door and caught it under a
bucket. Neither of us could deal with the idea of killing it, so
through a series of ridiculously complicated and awkward maneouvers we
managed to get the bucket turned rightside up and covered. We carried
our little quarry down to the street for release. Is this a brilliant
way to deal with a rodent problem? No it is not. But it was about 3 in
the morning, and we'd both just come in from a night out, were both too
tired to contemplate better plans, and really, it doesn't matter enough
to risk getting robbed or shot at (not at all uncommon occurances late
at night in PP), so it seemed like a good plan.

Our corner had
one of the only working street lights for a few blocks, so there was
always at least one motodop driver or cyclo driver sitting on the
corner waiting for a fare. We went down to the front gate and upturned
the bucket. The wee rat went running for the street. There were two
motodops who looked at us like we were crazy. One said, "What are you doing?"
To which Eve answered that we'd caught the rat and were putting it
outside. "Why don't you kill it?" "Oh we don't want to." Meanwhile, the
other one had jumped off his motorcycle and was dancing around. Squish.
He'd stomped on it. Ug. I didn't know whether to cry or to throw up.

I
know that mice are one of those welcome-to-city-livin' sort of things,
but I haven't often had them. (Though there was that one place in
Greenpoint, but, uh... nevermind). But this building, a fine example of
1930s design, has 'em. I wish the little buggers weren't so damned dim.
I'm more than willing to broker a deal-- they get toilet trained and
stay the hell out of my root vegetables and I'm happy to leave them a
little snack. *sigh*

15 July 2005

Finding your book that you hadn't yet finished is like a good medicine!
Also, having your holga replacement camera that sat in Maryland for too
many days finally arrive is also like a good medicine. Not like a good
medicine? Immediately losing the lens cap from your new Holga. But only
after making the classic rangefinder boo-boo of shooting half a roll with it on.

So I'm at the gym yesterday morning. Look, I work in a small office, so
my anthropological observations are by necessity done on the bus or at
the gym. My office is too small to be a society; it's more like a
nuclear family. If my office mates are having a conversation there is a
strong chance that I'm in the conversation, which makes it heavy on the participant, light on the observation.

So
I'm at the gym yesterday morning, getting dressed in the locker room,
and the two women blow drying the hell out of their hair at the mirror
nearby are discussiing hair conditioner. "I found this great
hair conditioner. You should totally try it- it does wonders to your
hair!" So I think to myself: a) hmmm, if I were the other chick I might
think, what, you insulting my hair?; b) hmmm, your hair looks kinda
limp and overprocessed; and c) you don't work for a hair conditioner
company, do you?

"Oh yeah? What is it?"

"I ordered it from (names some company I've never heard of, but the other chick seemed to recognize it)."

"I've heard their stuff is really good."

"Oh
yeah, it's great stuff. They have these researchers and explorers and
stuff who went down to the jungle in South America or Central America
or something. And they found this lost tribe of people, you know,
natives or whatever, who had, like, great hair. And so they
found out that these people rubbed their hair with this, like, nut that
made their hair beautiful. And that's in this conditioner."

"Oh really?"

"Oh yeah, it's great stuff."

Uh-huh. Apparently my belief that the whole Tasaday debacle
had closed the era of "lost tribes" was erroneous. Perhaps if beauty
companies continue to comb the jungles of South or Central America (or
what-ever) they will also find theLost Tribe of the Long-Lasting
Luscious Lip Color or the Lost Tribe of the Perfect Appetite
Suppressant. Because, of course, this is why "primitive tribes" stay
"lost." They are waiting for the beauty company with the best marketing
to find them and bring their ancient Chinese secret to the rest of the
world.

13 July 2005

Like *a* medicine. Not in the general. In the specific. This is
my fortune. I found it in my pocket. The pocket of the pants that I
just washed, and yet it is in pretty good condition. Even though it has
been a while since I went to Chinatown for dumplings.

It is good that I found something,
since I've been losing lots of other stuff lately. The most recent loss
is that of the book I was reading. I only had about 40 pages left. It
wasn't a great book; it wasn't even especially good. It was an adequate
book. But it was a book that I have already invested 300 pages worth of
reading into, and damnit, I wanna know how it ends. It makes my heart
unmerry. Which is like a bad medicine.

Ah, Phlame. You are a busy busy bee, Phlame. Always putting those enigmaticly titled emails in my inbox. What is one to make of

###&&%Mature ladiez!!###%% Real color older women###Printing%%

Real
color older women printing? I'm not sure I always follow you, Phlame.
Nor am I always sure that I am quite on the same wavelength as your
brother, Phlamespitting, who has recently written me to let me know
that he has:

####College lezzies!###spitting color###%&insurance##&

Hm.
Spitting color insurance. Seems like it might be an unpleasant
condition, that. Perhaps you might direct them to get "###%$The Best
MedzCHEAP##$$photos###" from Mr. Caoutchouc James. Which, if I am
remembering my French correctly, means that his first name would be
"rubber" or "rubber tree." Well, Phlame, I guess all you spammer folks
have interesting naming practices. Someday an anthropologist might sit
in on your naming rituals and clarify it for the rest of us.

11 July 2005

Last Friday we went to Justa's birthday party, which was held on the
roof of her building just down the road from our place. We met Justa
through our neighbor in the building next door, Lea, whom I met when
she and I worked in the same polling station last November. Mind you,
it wasn't our polling station (which is across the street), but
the next precinct over's polling station. We got to chatting at the
polling station and discovered that we were both art historians. Then
we discovered that we both worked on non-Western art. Then we began to
talk about Andre Malraux's (kind of obscure outside of France) writings
on art history and realized that we'd both read it, and that another
woman working the polling station had written her thesis on Malraux,
and that we three were also French speakers (chances that three random
Americans would all speak French?). Walking home Lea and I discovered
we lived in buildings next door to each other and have the same
landlord. We've been friends ever since.

Hanging out on
someone else's roof brought up the decidedly touchy topic of our
landlord and roof access. Lea passed on the information that our
buildings both used to have roof access, but then some nimrod
got drunk and threw a lawn chair off the roof, injuring a pedestrian
below. So no more roof access. Unfortuantely, she didn't know which
idiot it was or what apartment they lived in. Lucky for them, because
this might have prompted a little revenge with the fish sauce.

That's when I spotted the woman with the blue hair and the piercings who looked really, really familiar.
Then I realized she looked familiar because I'd had dinner with her.
She is friends with my best friend (who lives in Philly)'s boyfriend
(who lives in Boston). They know each other from college (which is
neither in Philly nor Boston nor DC). A completely random coincidence.
Wicked bizarre.

Justa's party was purdy damned fun, I must
say. It was also one of those parties where you don't realize you've
had too much to drink until you're walking home and it's giving you bed
spins. So I went straight to bed immediately upon arriving home, only
to wake up three hours later for a photowalk with fellow flickrite gcarrig.

The
seven am meet time sounded like a good idea when it was suggested in a
hey-the-streets-will-be-empty-and-the-light-will-be-good sort of way.
Also in a I-completely-forgot-that-Justa's-party-was-the-night-before
kind of way. I was feeling a bit rough when I got to the meetup. But a
good sized coffee later and I was good to go. More or less.

The
photowalk rocked. I've only ever tried walking around with another
person specifically to take picutres twice before, and both were kind
of, uhmmm, uncomfortable. One got bored very quickly and stood around
sighing a lot. We were on a trip together. After that I usually
traveled alone or told people I was going to the most boring site in
the country so that I could go walkabout alone. The other time I tried
this was with someone who got bizarrely proprietary about everything.
He kept saying I was taking "his" pictures. Even when I was there
first. Then I was taking the picture he's wanted to take. That was about ten years ago.

This time I had a really good time. I now see that the key to the success of a photowalk is to not go with wingnuts. I'm thinking I could do this again, even.

09 July 2005

Okay, I used to have a Holga. Actually, it's in a box somewhere in my
parents' basement in New Jersey, so I suppose that technically I
*still* have a Holga, though I looked for it last week when I was there
and didn't find it. Which I guess means I still have a Holga the way
that you still have the socks that get lost in your dryer if it's your
dryer. You know it's there somewhere, but you can't use the socks
because you only have the one. But you don't throw out the unmatched
sock, just in case its mate decides to appear in your laundry basket.
My missing Holga has been like that for quite a while, blocking me from
breaking down and replacing the stupid thing because I know that it is
there, somewhere, lurking in my parents' basement, waiting to spring
out into an obvious place the moment I buy another one.

But
really, at a certain point I had to admit that a) my long lost Holga is
going to remain lost for months, years, perhaps forever, and during
that time I will not be shooting any funky rolls of 120 with it; b)
Holgas are $16, so owning two is not a big deal; and c) my Holga was an
extra special piece of crap to begin with. Brand new it used to
periodically explode without prompting, exposing whatever was in the
camera. The clips meant to hold the back on the camera were constantly
falling off. And it used to roll the film up all loose and funky. So I
finally broke down and ordered a new one.

Actually, I ordered
three. First of all, I ordered one that is meant to replace the one
that wallows in the bazillion boxes of books and books and odd clothing
items and random stuff that I sent home from Vietnam. Then I saw the
Fisheye Lomo. It is a lomo with a fixed fisheye lens. Hmmmm. Then,
I ordered a cool-looking Lomo with four lenses and four flashes that
takes four images per 35mm frame sequentially over one second. I have
been all set, revved up, and ready for some major toy camera action for
weeks.

But I'm all dressed up with no place to go. The four
lens Lomo arrived tout de suite. I mean, seriously, I ordered on a
Thursday afternoon and I had it at my aparment Friday afternoon. So I
shot a buncha stuff with it. I brought it to Nevada. I sent off the
film to be developed- and discovered that one of the flashes didn't
work. Then I spent more than a week calling and calling and calling the
place that sent the camera to explain my situation. I finally got
someone in customer service who agreed to refund the cost of shipping as well
as replace the camera (ahhh, me and my ridiculous requests!).
Meanwhile, the fisheye Lomo is on super-mega backorder until August. I
finally got notified on July 1st that the regular ole Holga was being
sent out..... waiting..... waiting..... waiting..... still waiting.....
I check the tracking. It has been sitting in Maryland for three days.